


Boxing Day

by ac1d6urn (Acid), Sinick



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid/pseuds/ac1d6urn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinick/pseuds/Sinick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry doesn't need a Christmas present. He receives one anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxing Day

  
_The more we dwell on what we don't want, the more we get it._

\- Louise Hay

Surprises are dangerous. That's just the way it is.

It wasn't always like that. I used to love surprises. But now if Ron doesn't warn me, his friendly clap on the shoulder feels like the thud of a curse landing. It took all of Bill's talent to lift the curse I laid on Ron in reply, out of pure battlefield reflex. And Ginny, well, she affects me even worse. She's nice and everything, but... She yelled my name once, trying to be heard across a crowded room, and her voice sounded just like Mum - that scream of 'Harryyy', right before the bastard's AK hit her - and I blacked out, like a dementor had got me.

The war's _over_. I keep telling myself that, and so does everyone else, but it doesn't matter a damn. Dementors lurk in every shadow. Death Eaters stalk me wherever I go. At least it feels that way, no matter how many times I remind myself it's all over. I was supposed to have got rid of them, but they're still out there. Haunting me.

Yeah, it's over. But it's _not_. Dunno if it ever really will be.

Hermione knows better than to surprise me, but she's clever like that. It's just... It's not right that Ginny and Ron had to learn the hard way. 

Every single one of us, whatever you call us - Dumbledore's Army, The Order of the Phoenix, or 'war heroes' according to the papers (ha, right, some heroes we turned out to be) - we all learned lots of things the hard way last year. And that wasn't fair or fun. But what's one more hard lesson after all the rest?

At least it's not that hard to remember, and they all know by now: surprising me is a Bad Idea. Every time.

For some reason they decided letting me drink is a bad idea too. Bollocks! It's not like I pub-crawl down Knockturn Alley every night. I don't! Anyway, what's wrong with carrying a flask? I need it, and for a bloody good reason, too! A bloke's gotta have a way to relax. Something to help him forget for awhile about what could be waiting to curse him in the back as soon as it's turned. I'd go mad if I didn't have a drink or two every now and then. Anything to finally get some sleep. 

It's a nice flask. Holds a lot more than you'd think it would, and it's a good fit for my pockets, easy to hide. I could even charm its sides to reflect like a foe glass, but what's the point? My nightmares show me more enemies than any foe glass. Besides, I can't come across as too crazy. Eccentric, maybe. But if I start reminding people of Mad-Eye Moody, they'll be even more annoying. 

What do they care? It's none of their fucking business, but they've still gotta go and stick their dirty great noses in.

Speaking of dirty great noses, Snape may be a nasty sod, but at least he's not a nosy one. Well, yeah, of course he _is_, but not in the stickybeak sense, at least. He's good about keeping quiet. In fact, he's a decent bloke. I told Ron to stop calling him a murdering bastard. It's not like Snape chose to do it, poor sod; not like Dumbledore didn't have to order him. It's not right, the way they treat him, even now, when I've explained to everyone about what I saw in his memories till I'm blue in the face. Getting on with your life after one war is no picnic, I should know, and Snape's survived twice as many wars as us and he was a bloody hero in both and what does he get out of it? Nothing. Just Ron calling him names. If anyone's going to call that stubborn sod a bastard, it'll be me, dammit! Not Ron.

Besides, Snape's got good taste in drink, every time he hands me a glass of something it's always nice and strong and goes down easy. Even though his firewhiskey's hotter than his tea. But it's not just his drinks I like, it's his place too; his wards are solid, not a crack in them, and they've got more layers than his bloody sarcasm, or those tatty old robes he wraps himself up in, like a mummy, if mummies wore black. 

But the point is, it's safe at Snape's place, safer than anywhere else. It's funny, you'd think a dark, cobwebby, godforsaken rathole like Snape's would be anything but safe, but sitting in his kitchen is the safest I've felt in weeks. Doesn't matter if I'm drinking his tea or his firewhiskey, they're both good and hot, and Snape doesn't talk much, which is fine by me. I like the quiet. He just stares, like he used to at school: that sharp, spying stare, but that's OK too, cause it's comfortable. I'm used to it. I know now, like I didn't know in school, that he's not really going to do anything to hurt me, so I can let him stare. I can even relax for once, let my thoughts wander. I sure as hell can't do that anywhere else. It's just such a relief, not to have to watch my back, 'cause Snape's used to watching it for me. 

He's always protected me, whether I knew it or not. He's good at it too, no matter what...

I mightn't have known it before, but I sure as hell know it now. If anything happened, Snape'd have my back. Wand out in a blur, curses right on the tip of that bitter tongue of his, enough curses to give all the Death Eaters nightmares of their own. That stare of his is so used to the shadows, he wouldn't miss a thing. He'd know all their tricks, how they think, how they fight, every last one of their weaknesses. He doesn't even need his patronus to beat dementors, he showed us that in class. And as he took apart any Death Eating bastard that was fool enough to have a go, he'd sneer at 'em, just 'cause they weren't worth his time. He'd drop the lot of 'em without breaking a sweat, Merlin knows he never lifted a finger when he was duelling me. And when the last of the bastards was down, he'd sleeve his wand and shrug, and maybe dust off his robes, in that good-riddance way. 

I'd say, "Thanks for coming. But I could've handled it alone."

And he'd do that eyebrow thing, and drawl, "Then I suppose you can 'handle' dropping the rubbish off at Azkaban. Or do you need a hand with that as well?"

I'd grin and nod. "A hand? Sure." Then I'd take his hand, and I'd shake it, and not in that stupid finger-crushing one-upmanship way either. No, I'd shake his hand properly, and I'd say "Thank you," so seriously that even he couldn't think I was taking the piss. I'd do it right. Like I've been wanting to do ever since... Since that day.

And then he'd smile at me.

...OK, no.  I can't even imagine that. He'd give me that bloody disturbing smirk of his, and he'd grumble, "Not bad... for a Gryffindor," and I'd smile a bit, and say, just casual, "Had a good teacher." And then he'd nod and "Hmph," and everything would be fine and quiet and peaceful, and no Death Eaters would ever dare stalk us in the shadows. 

Not ever again.

*

  
Huh? Where am I? Ow hell, my head! Urrk. What'd I do last night? Went to see Mum's playground, then I stopped at Snape's. Had a few to drink. Didn't want to go back to Grimmauld, it's pretty empty and Ron didn't answer my floo call and I didn't feel like staying at home all alone. Grimmauld Place is all right, except for the times when it's grim like a real Grim, hunting you. 

Did I tell Snape that? Hope I didn't. What day is it? Twenty-third? No, twenty-third was the day before, there was a newspaper.

Oh fuck, it's Christmas!  Why the hell didn't anyone tell me?

Wait, who _was _there to tell me?  Just Snape, and I can't really blame _him_ for not keeping track.  And it's not like I've been hanging about with anyone else lately. Haven't talked to Ron in ages and Hermione's away with her family. Dammit, I knew I forgot something! Mrs. Weasley invited me for Christmas Eve dinner. And instead I spent yesterday here, drinking with Snape. She's gonna kill me if she finds out!  And if she doesn't, her Howlers will.

Ugh, even thinking of Howlers is making my head ache.

Speaking of headaches, where is the greasy git? Hope he got half as much of a headache as I did from drinking his brew. Wicked stuff. I didn't even realise my head was spinning so much till I tried to get up, and by then I was already half asleep. 

Hang about, that was in the kitchen, I remember laying my head on the table, all the bottles clinked. But now I'm on the sofa. I don't remember going to the living room. Did I pass out? Did Snape Mobilicorpus me here? I reckon even blind drunk he could still cast perfectly well.

"Snape?"

Not a sound. Not even snoring, and with a nose like that I bet he snores like thunder. Is he outside?

Wow, look at all the fog. Brr, cold as dementors out here too. At least it doesn't feel like dementors. "Snape? You out here?"

What was that? I heard something. A rustle. A flicker.

They found me! Gotta hide! Shit, where's my wand? Where the hell did I leave it? No time to look! Gotta be quiet. Can't move.

Fucking fog! What's up there?

Whew! Just owls, after all. Three of 'em. They're carrying parcels. That's it.

My head's spinning. I've gotta get up, get out from behind these bins. If I pass out here, Snape'll never let me live it down. Oh no, not now!  Urrgh.  Gotta focus on something calm. The snow. It's soft like owl feathers. There, I'll think about that instead. It's a good morning. I don't want my nightmares to come back.

It's all just like before the war ever happened, right? Before I even knew anything about the war. I was eleven and was meant to get my Hogwarts letter. The Dursleys didn't want me to have it, but the owls kept bringing more and more till the whole street was full of them. It was brilliant!

Owls are brilliant. Magical. Like snow. Like Engorgioed snowflakes circling over my head, soft and slow. They're carrying something. For me.

They're gonna drop their parcels. I'll have to catch them, keep my hands out to break their fall. Nothing bad will happen to me. No one's gonna get me here, not in daylight in a Muggle street, not in front of Snape's house. There, he's even at the door. Watching over me. Nothing will get me on his watch. 

He's frowning, as if he suspects something. Staring at me, as if he's looking into my mind. Is he? Does he know what I'm thinking?

"You're barefoot, you utter prat. Get back in here before your toes freeze off."

Oh! Right. No wonder he looked worried. Silly sod, he shouldn't worry about me. "Merry Christmas!" There, that distracted him. Now he's just annoyed. I'm used to annoyed. That's easy to fix. If I grin at him just right, like this, he... doesn't smile of course, but his lip twitches, just a bit. Probably 'cause I look daft when I do this, but whatever it takes. Yeah, there. That's it.

Not much room on the table for the mail, it's covered in boxes and jars and books. I'll leave my share out anyway. I can sort my mail from Snape's later.

My hands are still shaking. It was cold out there, that's what I'll tell him if he asks. I've got to snap out of it. Presents are surprises, but the good kind. War can't change that, I won't let it. It's taken away so much already, I won't let it take away Christmases too. I remember my first Christmas at Hogwarts.  All the wrapping paper was so bright and festive. Just a simple thing really, but it made the morning so much more brilliant. 'Cause whatever was inside was a surprise, and it was fun just to feel it and shake it and try to guess what was under the shiny paper. What's the use of birthdays and Christmases if you have to stop and check every parcel for poisons or hexes? Looking forward to something good is half the point. Presents are there to help you feel more alive. They're not there to kill you. Gotta keep reminding myself that.

There, this one's from Hermione, and this is from Neville, and that's from George. And the big, soft, squashy parcel wrapped in red is from Mrs. Weasley. Nothing dangerous, no more than any of her jumpers are anyway. There isn't even a single Howler.

What's this box? It's not big, but it's even brighter than the wrapping on the others. Looks like something out of a circus, something you'd pull out of a magician's hat, full of bonbons. Must be for me too, can't imagine anyone sending anything this bright to Snape. And if it's bonbons, he doesn't seem the type to have a sweet tooth. Well, it's opening just fine - what's in...

**BOMB!**

FUCKitHURTS! HELP! 

ohshit I can't SEE!

dizzysickblood

...didn't even have time to thank him...

*

  
Where am I? Smells like St. Mungo's. Antiseptic charms, cold sweat, I'll never forget it. It's always smelled like this, from the first time I visited back in school, to the last time I came to visit Snape. Poor sod, they poked and prodded him for months, trying to cure that fucking horrible snakebite.

Wait, it can't be St. Mungo's. The room's too narrow and dim. All blurry. Where are my glasses? I can barely make out anything. "Snape?" Has to be, with that nose and hair. What happened to him? I never thought someone who looks like death warmed up could be such a sight for sore eyes.

I bet I'm still at Snape's place. Must be upstairs. Dunno how a bed this huge could fit in such a tiny room.

Glasses. "Thanks!" Bloody lucky I Unbreakable-charmed them, otherwise I'd be blind by now.

Not that Snape's a pretty sight, poor sod looks even worse for wear than usual. Are his sleeves singed? Yeah, and his hands are even worse, burnt and bruised and oh fuck it must've got him too.

Well, would you look at that! I expected him to finish the job the bomb started on me, for setting the thing off. But he's smiling at me! This is what it takes to get the sour sod to smile? Unbelievable.

"Innit time... y'stopped... savin' me?" Dammit, I can't even string two words together without coughing my head off!

"When you stop taking risks."

Oi, stop with the scorching glares, I'm sure I've got enough burns already. My face feels stiff and swollen and sticky, and if I wasn't so numb and lightheaded from whatever he's done to take the pain away, I bet I'd be screaming myself hoarse right now. "'Kay. Least this one wasn't my fault." Was it? No, of course not! Can't be. "No way either of us could've guessed."

Whoever's fault it is, doesn't change the fact that it exploded. Must've tore me up pretty bad too. I can't feel my hands. God are they...? Whew, yeah, still there, just wrapped up. Severus must've bandaged them. How long have I been out? Long enough for him to carry me up here. And then he did something for the pain and bandaged my wounds and kept me alive. I never would've woken up if it wasn't for him. He saved me. He always does. Doesn't matter what he says, he might be pants at lectures but he's a good teacher, and a good guardian, and a hero.

He's...

I can feel a touch on my arm - well, at least my shoulder isn't numb. That's good news. That, and the fact I'm alive and can see. Fuck, how could this happen? It doesn't make any sense! "Why do people do this?"

"Do what?"

OK, he can drop that bloody annoying mask of his now. He must be wondering the same thing, I know he is! "Fucking underhanded murder attempts, that's what! Sending a curse that looks like a gift!" Some Christmas present that was! What am I supposed to do now, be afraid of every letter, every parcel? I can't even send my owl out to get my post again. I'm not losing Winifred like I lost Hedwig.

Just as well Severus is here. Dunno what I would've done without him. Never thought I'd feel that way, but it's good to have him around. It helps, a lot.

"It was mine."

Huh. "What was?"

"That box. It was sent to me."

What the hell is he talking about? Oh...

Oh!

As I gape at him he goes on, "But of course you, with your usual attention span, grabbed it first without even checking."

But I'm not really listening, I'm too busy thinking about that bomb.  It was meant for him. Someone out there's really trying to kill him. That explosion in my face... Well then, that's not so bad. It's bad of course, but it could've been worse. Much worse. Look at me, for example - at least I'm only worrying about hexes from around the corner or Death Eaters attacking in broad daylight, but all of that's happening to Severus, right now, for real! That's so much worse than just worrying about it. At least the attempt didn't work this time. I got to it first. Whew. "Just as well I opened it, 'cause-"

_"What?"_ Snape yells, as outraged as if I'd just hexed him, "Don't be even more of a bloody fool than you usually are!"

What'd I say? Crap! If he curses me I just hope it won't be with anything he invented. That'd be a right pain in the arse to reverse. He's really mad, but he can't be mad at me for an accident that happened to me instead of him. That's just unfair!

"I mean it! I'm glad! Better my hands than yours!" There! It's the truth. He has to see the truth. "You can't afford mistakes, you've got to be precise with your knives and ladles or someone'll end up sick or poisoned. All I have to do with mine is catch a snitch. See, better this way."

He doesn't even bother to reply this time, just gives me that Look of his, the one that makes you feel like a dribbling idiot.

But I'm damned if I'm going to let him get to me! Anyway, it's not as though I haven't had that same Look thrown at me for years in class. I meant what I said! Better me than him! "Besides, if I have to, I'll do like I've already done before, and catch the snitch in my teeth. Can you brew with yours?" Ha! Of course he can't! That ought to make him see reason.

"Now _there_'s a logical proof and a half. Or a logical proof for a halfwit," he sneers, but I can tell the rage isn't really in it anymore. "For your information, Potter, Q.E.D. does not stand for Quidditch erat demonstrandum."

There, I'm in the clear. I grin in relief, or I think I do: my face is almost as numb as my hands. See, when he just grumbles his insults, it's all right. It's easy to know when Snape's seriously mad, he either yells or goes deadly quiet. Bloody ironic, now I think of it: when his usual nastiness is for real, he either roars like a lion or hisses like a snake.

But when he adds jokes to his insults like that, it's even better than just grumbling. Coming from him, even a joke as sarky as that one's as good as Ron's shoulder thumps. Better, 'cause it doesn't make me want to reflex-hex him.

I don't have time to say anything before he goes on grousing, "You're lucky you've still got all your fingers."

"Yeah, I reckon I _am_ lucky! And you know it!" For once, just try to see what I'm saying, and be happy it turned out well, you sour sod! "Admit it, if you didn't know I was lucky, you wouldn't be so calm." Wait. That doesn't make any sense. A box in his house just exploded! It got in past his wards! The paranoid git should be nervous as hell about his precious security measures. "Why are you so calm?"

His face is a mask again. But he's pale and stiff and he isn't touching me anymore, just clutching the sheet so tight it looks like it's about to tear.

"What did you do? How long was I out? The people who sent this, did you find them? Did you ... do something to them?" I never noticed before, his stare... if you catch it from the right angle, his eyes look just as blank as the ones I remember staring at me through the Death Eater masks in my nightmares.  Murderer's eyes, empty and barely human. I... What the hell happened?

"No one sent a bomb, Harry."

What? He called me Harry, he... wait, what? No-one? What the hell does he mean by that? "Someone had to! It didn't send itself! Wait, where are you going?"

What's he got there? A box? Yeah, the same box! I'll never forget those colours. How can it still be in one piece? What's he _doing?_ It's the _bomb!_ Gotta get rid of it! It'll kill him! NO, don't open it! Get away! NOW! Let go! I've gotta block him from the blast if it blows again. Give it here! Dammit, I'm fumbling, my hands are too numb for this. Shit, I'm gonna drop it! It's...

It's _not_ exploding. And it feels light - too light to hold anything explosive - just like an ordinary box, a cardboard box covered in patterned paper. There's something printed on the side, never noticed it before. "Best Wishes Box".

I hold my breath and rattle it. Nothing. A bloody empty box! There's a note with it: yellowed, must be old.

'My boy, I hope that by your fortieth birthday you finally have everything you could wish for. But until then, this might be of use. A.D.'

A.D. It's Dumbledore's handwriting. And it sounds exactly like something Dumbledore'd say.  Can't imagine anyone else calling Snape 'My boy'.

"Curious design, isn't it? Dumbledore called it the world's greatest gift box. It's charmed to contain whatever the recipient is looking for the most, in the moment he opens it. ...Harry! Are you listening?"

This box. Severus. Dumbledore. It's all wrong. Breathe. Focus! What am I missing? Well, besides the feeling in my hands. And Christmas itself. It's been and gone and I didn't even notice it till Boxing Day. _Boxing!_ Ha-bloody-ha! "I... I don't get it."

"It contained a bomb because what you expected the most was a covert attempt to kill you. You expected it so vividly and in such detail that the box created it."

What the hell? Is he trying to tell me the box blew up in my hands 'cause I _expected_ it to?  But... I _felt_ it, the blast was real, all that burning heat and pressure and pain. I didn't just imagine it!

"I've seen these symptoms. I know them. You need help."

Not him too! I trusted him! He never sticks his nose into things that are none of his fucking business. I thought he was different! "Like fuck I do!"

"Lie down! I ought to haul you to St. Mungo's."

NO! Not them! I can't! I thought he was different from all the rest. He must be, he survived two wars. He knows how it is! "Please! I..." Don't ask me! Don't make me! I already got it - all the help I want or need. All the help I can ever accept. "Severus... please..."

He's staring. Can he see what I can't put into words?

...

Did he? I never _wanted_ him to read my mind before.

"Stubborn sod. Drink."

What's that? Potion? Does this mean he's not going to take me to St. Mungo's?

That's gotta be it. Whew!

Did he just growl? OK, OK, I'll finish the whole thing! Merry Christmas to me, nasty old potions and all. "Cheers!" Bleah! It's a talent, I s'pose, being able to make everything you brew taste bloody awful.

But actually, bad as that tasted, the rest of this feels pretty good. Not merry like Christmas or anything like that, but just like any other morning: quiet, a bit dim and grey. Nothing like Hogwarts' holidays with the tree and the twinkling lights and the fairies, but that doesn't matter. It's nice to be looked after, and not in the poking, prying, preaching way they do at St. Mungo's. Severus will look out for me, and that's good to know. He unwraps the bandages from my hands. I'm so confident I don't watch him do it: instead I watch his face.

If he hadn't been so focused on what he was doing, if I hadn't been sitting so close, or didn't know him so well, I would've missed it. That tiny flicker of tension, so subtle I don't even know where in his face, his posture, I see it. But I do see it, and I might be pants at Legilimency but I know he wasn't expecting ... this. God. My hands! They look like... like a bad barbeque. Half-raw, half-burned meat. Bone and tendons and... Ugh. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. Suddenly, it's that or throw up his potion all over the bed. Looks like the potion's not working like he expected anyway.

He sets my hands down gently - I'm glad now they're so numb - and I hear a rustle of bedding. Unable to look again at the mangled mess in my lap, I fix my gaze on the box as he lifts it off the bed.

He takes a deep breath, then tries for his usual dry humour. "If you've quite finished pawing my property... here. I think I'd better show you how to put it to proper use."

Huh? What's he going to do to that box? Looks like he's concentrating really hard, with his eyes closed and the oddest look on his face, scowling but almost...  pleading.

Oh. I bet he's going to try and take something out of it. I wonder what? What would Severus want for a present? Something... Look out, he's opening it! "Careful!"

What's he got in his hand? A bottle. Potion. Typical Snape! I bet if he looked in the Mirror of Erised he'd see a potions storeroom.

He unstoppers it. Sniffs. Pours some out into his palm. It's not like any potion I ever saw, just thick, clear goop, not even any smell, nothing that I can catch from here anyway. I crane to get a closer look...

Oi! You can't just take a bloke's glasses off his nose! That's just rude!

"Lie down."

Oh. That makes sense. The potion's for me. My glasses must've protected my eyes from the explosion, but the rest of my face would've burned. Severus traces gentle circles around my numbed eyesockets, outside the rims of my glasses. All of a sudden, I can feel his touch. Cool, then warm.

"Hold still."

I am! I'm not about to turn down help. Especially since it's helping so fast. The numbness fades at once, but it doesn't hurt. Tickles a bit, especially when he strokes around my mouth and by my ear.  If I laugh, will he yell?

It's one hell of a remedy! Even I can feel that. My face itches, but in a good way, just for a bit. Then everything stops and when I stretch my lips to smile, it's all normal. I raise my hand to touch it. Oh, wait, I can't. My hands are burnt.

Severus grabs me by the wrist to hold my hand still. I can't help looking at it, then the other one, and my stomach does that same horrible slow roll. Have I got any skin _left?_ Damn, was my face this bad? Is it still? I swallow down the nausea. Fuck, I must've looked like an Inferius, but he hasn't said a word!

Severus' fingers are white and smooth at the tips, where the salve touched, but there are still burns and scrapes at his wrist. He should take care of himself!

Instead, Severus begins spreading salve over my right hand. He shouldn't bother, really, there isn't much skin left to heal. There can't be. But he keeps stroking in circles, stubborn sod, his nose lower and lower over my hands, until his hair touches my hand. 

Oh. I can feel that, as it trails across my palm. The light brush of hair, and his breath. The numbness has gone. It doesn't hurt. Just.. soft. Warm. Not scorching, like an explosion or like his words can be. A good kind of warm. Tingling again, as my burnt flesh swells pink with new layers of skin, turns whiter, smoother. It's itching now.  I can feel Severus' fingers rubbing in the salve. Wow! Some potion he pulled out of the box!

"What is this stuff?" Instant phoenix tears?

Severus shrugs. His voice is so soft I have to lean in and listen extra close. "Pure magic, perhaps. Concentrated health. Liquid healing. I didn't think about its formula, just what I needed it to do."

The box still lies empty, harmless as wrapping paper at the foot of the bed.

It nearly blew me to bits. It produced a miracle cure.

What a fantastic present that box must have been! All the things he could wish for, anything in the world small enough to fit inside a little cardboard box. I wonder what else he's wished for?

Wait. When I found that box on his table it was sealed shut. That's why I thought it came in the mail. I broke the seal on the lid myself. "Dumbledore sent it to you, didn't he?" And he's been dead for what, two years now?  "Why'd you leave it unopened all this time?"

He glances at the box and winces. "Open _that_? Of course not. I knew what it held."

"You _did?_" Then why the hell did he leave it in plain sight, for me to find?

Severus bows his head, hiding his face behind all that stringy hair. "I researched the charms on it, thoroughly. I wasn't about to open the lid on a potentially lethal curse, any of the hundreds that could've been created by my suspicion," 'and guilt,' he might as well have added aloud, 'and self-hatred.' I can hear the bitterness in his voice. "My only mistake was to think that it wouldn't be dangerous if it was used by anyone less paranoid than myself."

Oh.

He doesn't raise his head, just looks up at me, hooded by greasy black strands. "When I told you I knew your symptoms... did you think I was joking?  I _know_, Harry."

He's staring, but so am I. His hands are still holding mine, as slick with the salve as my hands are. My nails tingle and turn pink instead of burnt-black in their nail beds. My fingertips are sensitive and smooth and whole, even the ragged skin around my nails that I can never stop from biting. I can feel every touch, and no pain. And as I look, the red patches and welts - the remaining wounds, on his hands, on mine - melt away like a bad dream, erased without a trace.

I'm healed. But even this doesn't compare to the shock of realising something else.

Severus _knows_. I never thought anyone had gone through what I had, I thought that no one else could understand it. That if anyone else knew how bad I really was, I'd be hauled off to St Mungo's, a freak to be studied and pitied and never released. But this - my nightmares, my flask, my never-ending fear of crowds or drawn wands - it's happened to someone else. It's happened to Severus. I'm not alone. He knows exactly how it is.

He really does. He can help me. He _did_ help me, just now. Out of all the things in the world he could've wanted as he opened that box for the very first time, what he wanted most of all was a potion to heal me. He must've thought that was worth taking the risk he'd avoided for so long.

"You saved me." Again.

He shrugs dismissively, but at least he doesn't look away. "Some wounds are more painful than others. And no one should suffer the burn of their own paranoia.  Especially you."

Even though the sarky sod would deny it, I know exactly what he left unsaid. No one's ever given me a gift like this. _Hope._ I could kiss him for it, right here and now and...

I could _kiss_ him.

Yeah.

He's staring. He's right here. Just a step away. Just a hairsbreadth... Just... yes.

Yes! Like this. Severus!

Bugger handshakes, I reckon this is the best way to say thank you.

His gaze... how could I ever think it was dead or empty? It's deep and intense and full of life. Beautiful.

He hands me my glasses.  "Renew the Unbreakable charm first," he suggests. "It'd be a shame to have them survive a bomb, only to crack at the sight of an ugly sod first thing in the morning."

"Hmph. You're not ugly. You're brilliant!"

I smile at him.

In return he gives me a look: warm, curious. Yes!

For the first time I'm starting to think that the war might really be over for good, that it's going to be OK. And that's more than enough of a cause to celebrate. It's not really Christmas that matters, but just the fact that it's another morning. Another new day. And we both survived that bloody war and moved on. We're still here; we're alive, and we'll be just fine!

Life is the best damn surprise ever, and it'll only get better. 'Cause _we_ can make it better. Together.

So I win, you bloody stupid box! You hear me? _I win!_ Severus can have you now. He's loads better at pulling surprises out of you than I am. But just so I can say I did this...

I reach out, close my eyes and concentrate, and dip my hand into the gap underneath the lid.

It's like jumping off a cliff. I've got to focus. What do I need most of all? 

Severus! Wishing for anything else seems silly.

Something brushes my fingertips. It's smooth and cool and hard, but it trembles when I touch it. Like something alive.

Huh. A snitch. Of all things... Ha! Yeah, it's a real snitch. The wings uncurl in my palm and flicker, eager to fly.

"Since you're so good at catching things with your teeth," Severus' voice is rich with amusement, "perhaps you should demonstrate how it's done."

Perhaps I will. I release the snitch, and it whizzes around us like a fly. I even make a few half-arsed attempts to nab it in my mouth, but then Severus' spidery fingers pluck the golden ball out of the air right under my nose.

Not fair! I mock-snap my teeth at his nearest finger, then take his fingertip softly between my lips and curl my tongue around it. There, cheating sod. Take that! The snitch's wing flutters against my nose. Ticklish. Soft.

Severus brushes the fingertips of his free hand across my forehead.  What's he doing, checking for a fever?  Do I have to convince him that wanting to kiss him doesn't mean I'm barking mad? But instead he whispers "Your scar's gone."

"It is?" Huh. The burns and the old potion stains on his fingers are gone too. But his Mark's still there, and so are the scars on the side of his neck. I lean forward, and just in case, rub the salve from my face onto his neck. Oh, he's letting me. It feels great. I...

"It won't work." His throat vibrates under my lips. "Your scar burned with the rest of your forehead... almost down to the bone. Then the salve regrew the muscle and skin, like new." He's trying for his teaching voice, but it's a bit too breathless. I'm not really listening like a good little student either. I want to learn more interesting things: the taste of his skin, the texture of the scars on his throat, under the slippery layer of salve.

"D'you think I'm kissing you only to get rid of the scars? Shh, just enjoy it." And Severus tilts his head back and sighs as his hands slip around my back, caressing. He's letting me do what I want with him, and it feels wonderful.

I push him back down on the bed with a rustle of sheets. Something falls to the floor. The box. Doesn't matter, I've got more important things to think about.

I have to unwrap my gift - the best gift of all.

Not just a present.

A future.

  


  
_With a little help from our friends, we can heal ourselves, even from war._

\- [Arthur Egendorf](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0877733953/fivelementcom-20)


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